“We should do something about the boy.”
“That is a thought to consider,” Veri muses, swirling the wine in his glass, studying the whirling trails of bubbles rushing up through the pale gold. “While it would not do to interfere with the amusements of our companions... they would find a new toy soon enough. And I do not think this one will provide as much entertainment as they had hoped.”
“We already have access to the priest – Luce seems to get on with him quite famously, and it seems Meres and Adir have spent a good deal of time with him as well.”
“True. And Meres has begun painting again. He will soon forget all about the boy in any case, so we might as well cut the needless slow decline short.”
I raise an eyebrow curiously at this news. “Has he? I had not heard. Have you seen any of the paintings?”
Veri falls silent, his entire body sinking into itself. He empties his glass again, and pours another, without answering me. Either the subject of the paintings is too painful, or Meres has not allowed Veri to see them. I am not sure which would be the worse for Veri, but in either case, I will receive no further information.
We are quiet for a time, losing our thoughts in the idle wanderings of the music which blows though the atrium, swirling slowly around the quiet echoes of the wilder music from the room we have left. Veri shivers, and I wrap an arm around his slim shoulders. My skin is hardly warmer than his, but he seems to draw comfort from the gesture nonetheless.
“Would you care to return inside? There are, of course, other rooms that we might visit.”
Veri sighs, shaking his head slowly. “No... no, I shall return home now, I think. I am weary, and will draw nothing more of worth from this party.”
“I am sorry it so failed to bring you a worthwhile diversion,” I reply politely. I am a little hurt, but not much, for I know that there are moods which come to us all, in which nothing, no matter how wondrous and sensual and exotic, can soothe the troubled mind and body.
“It did, for a time... and I am glad to have talked with you. I see you so rarely, my dear Mephisto. Do bring me some music, on days when I have no strength to leave my rooms. You are so much more knowledgeable in that area than I, and I should be glad for some change in the sounds about the place.”
I smile broadly at this, and caress his cheek lightly as I stand. “I would be happy to do so, darling. Send word round to me, at any time.” I offer him my hand, and he rises slowly, wincing a little as he does so. “Are you quite alright? Shall I have someone accompany you home?”
“No! No, I... I will be fine in a moment. The cold, you know, it makes the body move so awkwardly.” He holds to my arm for several steps, then straightens and forces a smile. “Thank you for a pleasant evening, Mephisto. I do hope to see you soon.”
“It was my pleasure, dear Veri.”
He turns away, and leaves the atrium through a darkened doorway, presumably to avoid seeing anyone else on his way out. I remain for a moment, breathing in the cool air, letting the sweet waves from the hydraulis fall against me.
David. I shall go find David, and perhaps we might find a small, warm room off the atrium, where the gentle music can caress our ears all through the night. Certainly I cannot leave him in that room of such loud debauchery – perhaps he has already been awoken! Oh my dear little boy, I would not have you sullied by such depraved hands. You are mine yet, and I do not wish you to be spoiled by others. I shall kiss you gently awake, and see your blue eyes smile as they find it is my face they open to. And I will rest in the beauty of your presence all the night, away from this party I have attended a thousand nights before, the pleasures and iniquities that have filled so many years. Though there is peace to be found in deafening sound, which drowns out all thought and concern, there is a greater peace to be found in silent beauty, which melts away all fraught worries, washing them from the mind and leaving it a quiet fresh bit of slate.
David, my dearest one, my heart's only rest... do stay with me this night, and ease my troubled soul.
Friday, November 26, 2010
18 - Mephisto, continued
“David, my darling young Orpheus, how you charm us all!”
He laughs, shaking his head, refusing to meet my admiring gaze. “No, no... my Greek is so poor! Little wonder I hardly passed my exams, I do hope I didn't embarrass you too badly – but I could not help but try to sing something. Such a lovely song! So bright and exuberant, so haunting in its pure simplicity.” He sings the first two lines, approximating the sounds of the Greek, though he bungles the words badly.
When he sings, the sun appears from behind the deep clouds hanging over all my days. When he is silent, the music of his eyes and motions pacifies me. When he is away... it is as an eclipse, the sun that grants all light and life stolen away from the entire world. It takes all of my strength (which is not always enough!) to maintain my composure around the boy, for he holds my heart, and no lifeblood moves through my veins without some touch of his hand.
A laughing faun darts up and grabs David's hand, yanking him into a line of dancers weaving through the crowd. Horrified by the abrupt interruption, I grab at David's other hand--- but I have been made weak in my raptures over him, and cannot seem to hold my ground, and we are both drawn into the wild dance.
He is laughing, struggling helplessly to get his hand away from the faun's, clinging tightly to mine, that he might not lose me in the rapid spirals and turns of the line, which whips across the floor with surprising speed. The faun whoops in abandon, darting back and forth from one side to the other, whipping us helplessly after him. I hold David's hand so tightly in my own, half-frantic at the thought of losing him, particularly in this moment when I have been so greatly moved by him.
The music shifts, and the aulos flares in volume, its eerie buzzing melodies reaching into the crowd as a wind among sharp rocks, the notes caught and tattered and torn by the quick turns and rough corners. The strings become rougher as well, the musicians strumming fast jagged swathes across the strings, and the tempo soon quickens. The dancers are running now, and it is all we can do to hold onto each other as the line whips us around in such fast turns. We are all breathless, but the feel of air flying past our faces is so exhilarating, our lungs burn with exertion and the rapid motion of the atmosphere around us. All the crowd is a blur, falling away in drunken waves, as we fly past them as birds flying low over the ocean, as a wind rushing over fields... David laughs, and then--- oh, my darling, you sing! You sing with words and you sing with no words, throwing strange melodies out into the air, a high descant, the notes chiming as bells in mountain air, falling as starlit raindrops, scattering the light as they fall and casting a thousand colors onto the world below... You sing as the stars sing, of that pure joy in sheer existence, in mere existence and all existence, for the very act of being, of sensation and expression which brings such fulfillment to your soul, that all your heart can bear to do is let it fly out in pure beautiful rapture.
“Hoson zes, phainou... shine as the stars above, as the stars below, with the stars surrounding in the circle of the dance... the dance, with our hands, the dance that binds us with the stars your brothers, phainou... the stars above and all around... shine, as the stars, while you live...”
And I have no words, I have eyes for nothing but you, it is all I can do to clasp your soft hand within mine, and not let it go... never will I let it go.
But I am shaken from my dream of happiness, jarred back by another hand, which grabs at my free hand and tugs me just that littlest bit away from you. I whip my gaze around in a rage, and it is Claude, that pretentious painter-boy of Meres'. He laughs lightly, his feet flitting over the ground as he keeps time with the wild dance, and he says something to me but I cannot hear him, for the line moves near the musicians and all is lost in the ecstatic chaos of their sound. And David... oh, my David, still you sing, and I have ears only for you...
“His Greek! Do make him stop, it is awful!”
My heart ceases, my body stops in a dead halt, and Claude crashes into me, taken by surprise. David cries out as his hand slips from mine, pulled away in the inexorable dance, the faun still refusing to release him. My heart crashes at the sudden loss, but even this is hardly to be noticed, so fierce is my sudden rage. I yank my hand free of Claude's, and slap his face sharply, snarling.
“You. It is not your place to say such things. You are too presumptuous.”
He holds a hand to his reddening cheek, still stunned by the action, his eyes wide and bewildered. But he recovers himself quickly, and retorts back. “It was only true! It is too embarrassing, to hear him.”
“You are in no place to make such judgments. Meres may have patience with your rude narcissism, but I have not.”
Claude laughs derisively, straightening his jacket. “Meres has less patience for you than for me!”
I pause at this, for it strikes me that it might well be true. Still! It does not matter. What matters is the crudeness of this boy's manner. “You will not speak so freely with us. You will show due respect, or you will cease to be admitted to such company.”
He barks a laugh, his face twisted in a derisive sneer. “You so threaten me? Meres will not let you cast me out. Nor will Luce, or several of the others, I think. You have only Veri on your side, and he is not strong enough even to leave his house.”
“You presume too much. You do not know all that you believe you know.”
“What does it matter? I shall learn what I need to know, soon enough. I hardly care for your so mysterious past – what does it matter to me? I shall gain power and influence through these associations, and my work will be seen by so many more people, thanks to all of you. That is what matters.”
And it is my turn to laugh derisively, though there is exhaustion rather than exultation in my tone, as I put a hand to my face, closing my eyes. “Oh, you dear young boy... how little you know of the world and its truths. You expect to be more than the amusement of a season? Go. Do not trouble me. You have caused me annoyance enough for an evening.”
He starts to retort something, but stops. I open my eyes, and see Meres standing behind him, a firm hand on the boy's shoulder. Claude's face is flushed with passion, but he bites his tongue. Meres says nothing, but looks into my eyes for a long time, as I look back into his. The exchange would not translate to words. But Meres walks off with Claude, speaking softly to him, and I turn away from them, no longer caring.
I step slowly, a little shakily, toward a marble pillar, which I lean against for support. I lift my eyes to the swirling crowd around me, and feel more tired than ever. My David... where have you gone? A dryad passes by, and offers me a drink from her tray. I lift two shining goblets, draining one absently and replacing it on her tray before she has had a chance even to step away. The second glass, I hold in reserve, as an archer retains his final arrow in case of extreme need. My eyes are lost in the ceaseless motion of those around me – my still frame, and the pillar which supports it, are the only constants in this ever-spinning world. The musicians move with the sounds their instruments send forth into the air, the dancers race about in endless circles, and those few who do not dance are caught up in still wilder motion, their bodies moving in tandem and in opposition. I alone do not move, my body frozen in weariness, muscles carved of ancient stone, as the cold marble beside me. My eyes slow, I drink slowly of the wine, my arm slowly dropping away with the glass empty in my hand, my fingers slowly uncurl and the goblet falls to the floor, the moment of its falling a weary eternity, before it clatters and rolls across the stone floor.
A maenad stumbles into me, her eyes wild and lips frantic, her body made desperate by the heat of the room and the heat of the wine and the heat of her own blood. She moves over me, but I am motionless, I am as the cold marble pillar, for I see no thing in this world that would move me... David, my David, your memory will pass so soon from me... for I am as the stone, and will not change, and will not move, and your entire life will run so quickly from my sight...
Cold fingers touch my cheek, and my eyes open again, tired, so tired...
“Mephisto? Do, come with me. You are too weary for this room, I think.”
“Veri? I did not think... you are here?”
He laughs softly, and the sound is so heartbreakingly weary. “Such an absurd question. Let us move to a quieter room.” He offers me a hand, and though he often seems so weak, he seems in this moment to have far more strength than I, as he helps me to stand. The body of a young woman falls away from me as I rise, as do the hands of a young man, but their eyes are so dusky with the haze of too much wine, that I do not think they have seen me at all.
We move carefully through the room, searching out the elusive paths between the many bodies still in motion... how can they do so still? I am so weary. But Veri leads me from the room, and down a short corridor, and into a large atrium, where no roof stands to block our view of the cold, distant stars. A haunting melody floats through the air... the hydraulis, I had nearly forgotten it. At the far end of the atrium, just beneath an arched doorway which captures and amplifies the sound, two young men are poised at a small organ. One kneels on the ground, his body moving in calm clockwork as he moves the arm of a water pump. The soft rhythmic snick of the pump's motion is a calm heartbeat, barely heard. The other man stands behind the intricately carved wooden podium, half-hidden behind reed-shaped tubes of bronze. Though I cannot see his hands, I hear the sounds produced by his fingers moving over the keys... a breathy, haunting sound, as a wind passing over empty bottles, as an ancient flute heard at a great distance. Each note has the slightest hesitation before it sounds, a gentle exhale, and the slight waver of water fluctuating against the air lends a tenuous delicacy to the tone. I am soothed by the very sound of the instrument, for though it is not exactly quiet, its tone lends calm and peace.
Veri seats himself on a low stone bench, and I do the same, letting the cold stone soak into my skin. A few large urns, set on pedestals and overflowing with exotic flowers, somewhat obscure us from the entry we passed through. Veri rises again for a moment, catching sight of a servant passing a doorway, and waves him over. Low words, a dismissive wave, and a scarce moment later, there are cushions for the bench, a bottle of pale golden wine and two delicate glasses. Veri waves the servant away again, and pours us each a glass of the wine. “Do, drink. This will refresh, rather than befuddle you.”
I take a slow sip, and find the light sparkling quality of the champagne to indeed be refreshing. I nod appreciatively, and smile faintly at Veri. “It seems you are playing a better host than I, this evening.”
“Ah, but it has been so long since I played host... I could use the practice, my dear.”
I sip calmly at the wine, letting it wash away the dull tensions within me, as the tiny bubbles mirror the ethereal sounds of the hydraulis, all gently burbling as a solitary forest stream. Veri is silent as well, sipping his wine and gazing idly at the marble arches surrounding the atrium. He lightly fingers the small white blossoms of a miniature tree in the nearest urn, smiling wryly to himself.
“Citron. I can rarely be bothered to recall the names of plants, but Meres is always pointing this one out to me, for it means 'ill-natured beauty'. Apparently he believes I should thus feel an affinity toward it.”
I smile weakly in return, my strength slowly returning, as though the soft notes in the air are breathing life back into my weary body. “There are times I suspect he invents such meanings on the instant. They are always far too apt.”
Veri laughs at this – and there is some mirth to the sound, alongside the pain one always hears in his voice. “He plants his gardens according to such meanings, you know. He makes no arrangement purely for aesthetic reasons, but always considers the meaning and compounded meanings of the flowers he places together. So the strange coincidences are never really so, for he plans them all.”
I cannot help but laugh. “So this is what we have come to! All the grand schemes of all the long centuries, kings and emperors, court intrigues and military coups, the plots which altered the very growth of mankind... and now we arrange flowers with the same subtle intrigue.”
Veri laughs as well, but soon sobers, refilling his glass. “Ah, but I no longer have the strength for such grandiose plans, have you?”
I need not answer – the state in which Veri found me not a quarter of an hour earlier grants him reply enough.
“I suppose this is why Claude tires me so – he does nothing that we have not done a thousand times before, though typically with loftier goals in mind.”
Claude. David! “Have you seen David? We were seperated in the crowd, and---”
Veri lays a hand on my arm, and I realize I have jumped up in my momentary panic. I sit down again, forcing myself to calm.
“David is in safety, do calm yourself. I saw him dozing peacefully, on a chair set among the musicians. How he can rest in all that noise, I do not know, but they will watch over him well enough.”
My heart gradually slows itself, and I find myself almost embarrassed to have shown such passion before Veri. I sigh heavily, and pour another glass of champagne. “My mind is ill at ease this evening, I am afraid... But you spoke of Claude, and that is what called David to mind, for the painter gave such crude insults to me earlier. He believes – I know not how – that he could supplant me among our group, that Meres holds him in higher esteem than myself. The presumption of that boy! It is intolerable.”
Veri raises an eyebrow at my outburst, then nods solemnly. “He has implied similar to me. He is not to be believed, of course. And yet...” He trails off, his eyes losing focus, and a deep cloud seems to settle over him. I feel as though a heavy weight has fallen over the both of us, each breath filling our lungs with some terrible mixture of sorrow, forlornness, yearning and exhaustion.
“...and yet you fear he is right,” I murmur softly, curling my hand around Veri's. Our skin is so cold, colder than the stone beneath us.
He sighs deeply, biting at his lip, his fingers curling and uncurling around the stem of his glass. He glances into my face for just a moment before looking away, but in that moment... I see fear in his eyes. Fear, and even panic, of the loneliness and abandonment that threatens him. Though I spend little time with Veri, for rarely do any of us wish to be near such clear reminder of the weaknesses that grow among us, I know how deeply he relies upon Meres. It could, I fear, even kill him, were Meres to ignore him for long.
He laughs, shaking his head, refusing to meet my admiring gaze. “No, no... my Greek is so poor! Little wonder I hardly passed my exams, I do hope I didn't embarrass you too badly – but I could not help but try to sing something. Such a lovely song! So bright and exuberant, so haunting in its pure simplicity.” He sings the first two lines, approximating the sounds of the Greek, though he bungles the words badly.
When he sings, the sun appears from behind the deep clouds hanging over all my days. When he is silent, the music of his eyes and motions pacifies me. When he is away... it is as an eclipse, the sun that grants all light and life stolen away from the entire world. It takes all of my strength (which is not always enough!) to maintain my composure around the boy, for he holds my heart, and no lifeblood moves through my veins without some touch of his hand.
A laughing faun darts up and grabs David's hand, yanking him into a line of dancers weaving through the crowd. Horrified by the abrupt interruption, I grab at David's other hand--- but I have been made weak in my raptures over him, and cannot seem to hold my ground, and we are both drawn into the wild dance.
He is laughing, struggling helplessly to get his hand away from the faun's, clinging tightly to mine, that he might not lose me in the rapid spirals and turns of the line, which whips across the floor with surprising speed. The faun whoops in abandon, darting back and forth from one side to the other, whipping us helplessly after him. I hold David's hand so tightly in my own, half-frantic at the thought of losing him, particularly in this moment when I have been so greatly moved by him.
The music shifts, and the aulos flares in volume, its eerie buzzing melodies reaching into the crowd as a wind among sharp rocks, the notes caught and tattered and torn by the quick turns and rough corners. The strings become rougher as well, the musicians strumming fast jagged swathes across the strings, and the tempo soon quickens. The dancers are running now, and it is all we can do to hold onto each other as the line whips us around in such fast turns. We are all breathless, but the feel of air flying past our faces is so exhilarating, our lungs burn with exertion and the rapid motion of the atmosphere around us. All the crowd is a blur, falling away in drunken waves, as we fly past them as birds flying low over the ocean, as a wind rushing over fields... David laughs, and then--- oh, my darling, you sing! You sing with words and you sing with no words, throwing strange melodies out into the air, a high descant, the notes chiming as bells in mountain air, falling as starlit raindrops, scattering the light as they fall and casting a thousand colors onto the world below... You sing as the stars sing, of that pure joy in sheer existence, in mere existence and all existence, for the very act of being, of sensation and expression which brings such fulfillment to your soul, that all your heart can bear to do is let it fly out in pure beautiful rapture.
“Hoson zes, phainou... shine as the stars above, as the stars below, with the stars surrounding in the circle of the dance... the dance, with our hands, the dance that binds us with the stars your brothers, phainou... the stars above and all around... shine, as the stars, while you live...”
And I have no words, I have eyes for nothing but you, it is all I can do to clasp your soft hand within mine, and not let it go... never will I let it go.
But I am shaken from my dream of happiness, jarred back by another hand, which grabs at my free hand and tugs me just that littlest bit away from you. I whip my gaze around in a rage, and it is Claude, that pretentious painter-boy of Meres'. He laughs lightly, his feet flitting over the ground as he keeps time with the wild dance, and he says something to me but I cannot hear him, for the line moves near the musicians and all is lost in the ecstatic chaos of their sound. And David... oh, my David, still you sing, and I have ears only for you...
“His Greek! Do make him stop, it is awful!”
My heart ceases, my body stops in a dead halt, and Claude crashes into me, taken by surprise. David cries out as his hand slips from mine, pulled away in the inexorable dance, the faun still refusing to release him. My heart crashes at the sudden loss, but even this is hardly to be noticed, so fierce is my sudden rage. I yank my hand free of Claude's, and slap his face sharply, snarling.
“You. It is not your place to say such things. You are too presumptuous.”
He holds a hand to his reddening cheek, still stunned by the action, his eyes wide and bewildered. But he recovers himself quickly, and retorts back. “It was only true! It is too embarrassing, to hear him.”
“You are in no place to make such judgments. Meres may have patience with your rude narcissism, but I have not.”
Claude laughs derisively, straightening his jacket. “Meres has less patience for you than for me!”
I pause at this, for it strikes me that it might well be true. Still! It does not matter. What matters is the crudeness of this boy's manner. “You will not speak so freely with us. You will show due respect, or you will cease to be admitted to such company.”
He barks a laugh, his face twisted in a derisive sneer. “You so threaten me? Meres will not let you cast me out. Nor will Luce, or several of the others, I think. You have only Veri on your side, and he is not strong enough even to leave his house.”
“You presume too much. You do not know all that you believe you know.”
“What does it matter? I shall learn what I need to know, soon enough. I hardly care for your so mysterious past – what does it matter to me? I shall gain power and influence through these associations, and my work will be seen by so many more people, thanks to all of you. That is what matters.”
And it is my turn to laugh derisively, though there is exhaustion rather than exultation in my tone, as I put a hand to my face, closing my eyes. “Oh, you dear young boy... how little you know of the world and its truths. You expect to be more than the amusement of a season? Go. Do not trouble me. You have caused me annoyance enough for an evening.”
He starts to retort something, but stops. I open my eyes, and see Meres standing behind him, a firm hand on the boy's shoulder. Claude's face is flushed with passion, but he bites his tongue. Meres says nothing, but looks into my eyes for a long time, as I look back into his. The exchange would not translate to words. But Meres walks off with Claude, speaking softly to him, and I turn away from them, no longer caring.
I step slowly, a little shakily, toward a marble pillar, which I lean against for support. I lift my eyes to the swirling crowd around me, and feel more tired than ever. My David... where have you gone? A dryad passes by, and offers me a drink from her tray. I lift two shining goblets, draining one absently and replacing it on her tray before she has had a chance even to step away. The second glass, I hold in reserve, as an archer retains his final arrow in case of extreme need. My eyes are lost in the ceaseless motion of those around me – my still frame, and the pillar which supports it, are the only constants in this ever-spinning world. The musicians move with the sounds their instruments send forth into the air, the dancers race about in endless circles, and those few who do not dance are caught up in still wilder motion, their bodies moving in tandem and in opposition. I alone do not move, my body frozen in weariness, muscles carved of ancient stone, as the cold marble beside me. My eyes slow, I drink slowly of the wine, my arm slowly dropping away with the glass empty in my hand, my fingers slowly uncurl and the goblet falls to the floor, the moment of its falling a weary eternity, before it clatters and rolls across the stone floor.
A maenad stumbles into me, her eyes wild and lips frantic, her body made desperate by the heat of the room and the heat of the wine and the heat of her own blood. She moves over me, but I am motionless, I am as the cold marble pillar, for I see no thing in this world that would move me... David, my David, your memory will pass so soon from me... for I am as the stone, and will not change, and will not move, and your entire life will run so quickly from my sight...
Cold fingers touch my cheek, and my eyes open again, tired, so tired...
“Mephisto? Do, come with me. You are too weary for this room, I think.”
“Veri? I did not think... you are here?”
He laughs softly, and the sound is so heartbreakingly weary. “Such an absurd question. Let us move to a quieter room.” He offers me a hand, and though he often seems so weak, he seems in this moment to have far more strength than I, as he helps me to stand. The body of a young woman falls away from me as I rise, as do the hands of a young man, but their eyes are so dusky with the haze of too much wine, that I do not think they have seen me at all.
We move carefully through the room, searching out the elusive paths between the many bodies still in motion... how can they do so still? I am so weary. But Veri leads me from the room, and down a short corridor, and into a large atrium, where no roof stands to block our view of the cold, distant stars. A haunting melody floats through the air... the hydraulis, I had nearly forgotten it. At the far end of the atrium, just beneath an arched doorway which captures and amplifies the sound, two young men are poised at a small organ. One kneels on the ground, his body moving in calm clockwork as he moves the arm of a water pump. The soft rhythmic snick of the pump's motion is a calm heartbeat, barely heard. The other man stands behind the intricately carved wooden podium, half-hidden behind reed-shaped tubes of bronze. Though I cannot see his hands, I hear the sounds produced by his fingers moving over the keys... a breathy, haunting sound, as a wind passing over empty bottles, as an ancient flute heard at a great distance. Each note has the slightest hesitation before it sounds, a gentle exhale, and the slight waver of water fluctuating against the air lends a tenuous delicacy to the tone. I am soothed by the very sound of the instrument, for though it is not exactly quiet, its tone lends calm and peace.
Veri seats himself on a low stone bench, and I do the same, letting the cold stone soak into my skin. A few large urns, set on pedestals and overflowing with exotic flowers, somewhat obscure us from the entry we passed through. Veri rises again for a moment, catching sight of a servant passing a doorway, and waves him over. Low words, a dismissive wave, and a scarce moment later, there are cushions for the bench, a bottle of pale golden wine and two delicate glasses. Veri waves the servant away again, and pours us each a glass of the wine. “Do, drink. This will refresh, rather than befuddle you.”
I take a slow sip, and find the light sparkling quality of the champagne to indeed be refreshing. I nod appreciatively, and smile faintly at Veri. “It seems you are playing a better host than I, this evening.”
“Ah, but it has been so long since I played host... I could use the practice, my dear.”
I sip calmly at the wine, letting it wash away the dull tensions within me, as the tiny bubbles mirror the ethereal sounds of the hydraulis, all gently burbling as a solitary forest stream. Veri is silent as well, sipping his wine and gazing idly at the marble arches surrounding the atrium. He lightly fingers the small white blossoms of a miniature tree in the nearest urn, smiling wryly to himself.
“Citron. I can rarely be bothered to recall the names of plants, but Meres is always pointing this one out to me, for it means 'ill-natured beauty'. Apparently he believes I should thus feel an affinity toward it.”
I smile weakly in return, my strength slowly returning, as though the soft notes in the air are breathing life back into my weary body. “There are times I suspect he invents such meanings on the instant. They are always far too apt.”
Veri laughs at this – and there is some mirth to the sound, alongside the pain one always hears in his voice. “He plants his gardens according to such meanings, you know. He makes no arrangement purely for aesthetic reasons, but always considers the meaning and compounded meanings of the flowers he places together. So the strange coincidences are never really so, for he plans them all.”
I cannot help but laugh. “So this is what we have come to! All the grand schemes of all the long centuries, kings and emperors, court intrigues and military coups, the plots which altered the very growth of mankind... and now we arrange flowers with the same subtle intrigue.”
Veri laughs as well, but soon sobers, refilling his glass. “Ah, but I no longer have the strength for such grandiose plans, have you?”
I need not answer – the state in which Veri found me not a quarter of an hour earlier grants him reply enough.
“I suppose this is why Claude tires me so – he does nothing that we have not done a thousand times before, though typically with loftier goals in mind.”
Claude. David! “Have you seen David? We were seperated in the crowd, and---”
Veri lays a hand on my arm, and I realize I have jumped up in my momentary panic. I sit down again, forcing myself to calm.
“David is in safety, do calm yourself. I saw him dozing peacefully, on a chair set among the musicians. How he can rest in all that noise, I do not know, but they will watch over him well enough.”
My heart gradually slows itself, and I find myself almost embarrassed to have shown such passion before Veri. I sigh heavily, and pour another glass of champagne. “My mind is ill at ease this evening, I am afraid... But you spoke of Claude, and that is what called David to mind, for the painter gave such crude insults to me earlier. He believes – I know not how – that he could supplant me among our group, that Meres holds him in higher esteem than myself. The presumption of that boy! It is intolerable.”
Veri raises an eyebrow at my outburst, then nods solemnly. “He has implied similar to me. He is not to be believed, of course. And yet...” He trails off, his eyes losing focus, and a deep cloud seems to settle over him. I feel as though a heavy weight has fallen over the both of us, each breath filling our lungs with some terrible mixture of sorrow, forlornness, yearning and exhaustion.
“...and yet you fear he is right,” I murmur softly, curling my hand around Veri's. Our skin is so cold, colder than the stone beneath us.
He sighs deeply, biting at his lip, his fingers curling and uncurling around the stem of his glass. He glances into my face for just a moment before looking away, but in that moment... I see fear in his eyes. Fear, and even panic, of the loneliness and abandonment that threatens him. Though I spend little time with Veri, for rarely do any of us wish to be near such clear reminder of the weaknesses that grow among us, I know how deeply he relies upon Meres. It could, I fear, even kill him, were Meres to ignore him for long.
Note - music
EEEEE!!! So, writing this morning, I have fiiiinally gotten Mephisto to wander over to the room with the hydraulis in it. (This has been making me crazy, because it's such an awesome-sounding instrument, that I had to use it, but couldn't yet.) I think there's one in a song or two among the 734820 I downloaded last week, but, wasn't sure, so went back to this video I posted a link to the other day, to get a refresher on the sound.
It's the Song of Seikilos!!! I didn't even know! The video was one of the earlier things I looked at that day, and it wasn't until later that I sat down and taught myself the song. (I now have it memorized, and it makes me very, very happy to be able to sing.)
...of course, now I have a *third* version to listen to, and so far each one has slightly different pronunciations in it. As I know no Greek whatsoever, I'm going to have to arbitrarily decide between them. hmm.
It's the Song of Seikilos!!! I didn't even know! The video was one of the earlier things I looked at that day, and it wasn't until later that I sat down and taught myself the song. (I now have it memorized, and it makes me very, very happy to be able to sing.)
...of course, now I have a *third* version to listen to, and so far each one has slightly different pronunciations in it. As I know no Greek whatsoever, I'm going to have to arbitrarily decide between them. hmm.
Notes - Tday and other things...
Boo for all the scary red squares on my NaNo graph! But, I got almost two days ahead before we left, so... I should be able to catch up?
Tom and I drove down to NC to spend Thanksgiving with his family, which was really, really lovely. On top of that, he chose this trip to propose to me.
So, yeah, writing? Little distracted. ;) (Full story - which is not the best engagement story ever, but, our story! - will be up on my personal blog eventually.)
I did manage to sneak like 600 words in one night, but couldn't get anybody's device to play nice with the wifi, so didn't update anything. It'll be in with today's posting... assuming I can focus long enough to write today. ^^;
Tom and I drove down to NC to spend Thanksgiving with his family, which was really, really lovely. On top of that, he chose this trip to propose to me.
So, yeah, writing? Little distracted. ;) (Full story - which is not the best engagement story ever, but, our story! - will be up on my personal blog eventually.)
I did manage to sneak like 600 words in one night, but couldn't get anybody's device to play nice with the wifi, so didn't update anything. It'll be in with today's posting... assuming I can focus long enough to write today. ^^;
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Note - Song of Seikilos
This is the song in the second half of that post - The Song of Seikilos. Oldest complete piece of music that exists. Wiki article, which is brief but has more links, aaand I can now sing along! I didn't actually listen to the version with lyrics (linked on wiki) until just now - but played the instrumental version a good dozen times or so, and I can hardly stop listening. Currently downloading what little ancient greek music I can find on the torrent sites. I now not only have a playlist on my zune of "1800s", but also "ancient".
Internet. <333 Who'd have guessed I could actually make such references in a NaNoNovel?? I am quoting ancient greek! Songs from millenia ago!
Internet. <333 Who'd have guessed I could actually make such references in a NaNoNovel?? I am quoting ancient greek! Songs from millenia ago!
18 - Mephisto
Ah, to be surrounded in such loveliness! It is in such luxurious atmosphere that I feel most at home, in decadence and plush furnishings and extravagance of decoration. Though the setting is, at first glance, a refined Grecian one, suffused with the simple elegance of white marble and rich sapphire blue, there is such detail in the execution of it that the eye is easily lost in a thousand tiny beauties. The pillars which stand in long, tall rows along the walls, and cross the floor, are the purest pale marble – yet they are rimmed with intricately carved scenes of gods and flourishing vines, capped with paint of gold and vermilion and cerulean. The floors are covered in lavishly colored mosaics, the tables hold goblets of simple shape and exquisite decoration, the vases and urns which hold flowers and wine are traced with the most intricate geometric patterns, rich ochered scarlet on varnished navy black.
The guests stand as a thousand smaller pillars, as statues cast in varied shades of exotic stone, their forms gracefully draped in flowing fabrics, trimmed with elaborate patterns, decorated with bracelets and necklaces and headpieces of gold and bronze, with stones in the hues of the warm Mediterranean landscape. Among them flit graceful young fauns, their small frames dancing lightly between those statues who will not join in their carefree dances. On occasion, they draw the attention of the ethereal dryads and hamadryads, naiads and nereids, and they circle together in half-wild dances that have no names. In a far corner, sirens croon their endless seductions, and if one draws to near, one will be pulled into the enchantment of their embraces, and find it impossible to leave. The muses move lightly among the musicians, making strange gestures to indicate a preferable melody, while Apollo holds court on a sun-crowned throne, his lyre near to hand, golden in his confidence and perfections.
And the music, ah, the music! This is the entire reason for the evening, to my mind. As David amused himself with my odd collection of instruments not long ago, he seemed fascinated by the gracefully shaped Grecian stringed instruments. Several of them had fallen into accidental disrepair, for I had not thought of them in some time. But one, at least, retained its delicate strings intact, and the boy bent over it carefully, his fingers brushing so softly... oh, so softly, so sweetly, over the strings, and the sound they produced and the motion of his hand sent shivers along my spine. Oh, my David, such a lovely picture you made... dark hair tumbling over your ivory brow, as you bent low over the instrument of old gold, your delicate fingers brushing the strings, drawing from them such light pure tones... and you sang softly to yourself, inventing a tune to match the strange melodies coaxed from the strings tuned in an exotic scale... You were as Orpheus, capable of charming any within hearing, and binding them to you, unable to draw themselves away from such haunting sound.
While still at his desert palace, Azal sent word to me that an old music had been found, at some decayed Grecian site. I was quite eager to hear it, and fortunately it was not long before he returned to us – and brought with him a copy of the old letters on ancient marble. I could not read them, but he had little trouble, and between his eyes and my ears, we were able to find the melody written down so long ago. It is an eerie one, for the Greeks employed more pitches in their scales than Europe has done for centuries, and so even a simple scale has a melancholy exoticism to it. A hymn to Apollo – and it was the first thing to be played this evening, once the guests had all arrived and made their greetings among each other.
“The shrill rustling lotus murmurs its swelling song, and the golden kithára,
the sweet-sounding kithára, answers the voice of men...”
I had repairs made to several of my instruments, and replicas of others made, following the designs of ancient paintings and my ancient memories. And so, tonight, at Apollo's feet, there is a small group of musicians, who produce sounds that none have heard in centuries... The haunting aulos, its parallel pipes held to the musician's lips, producing simultaneously a low undulating melody and a reedy harmony. I much prefer the simpler wooden one, with its warmer sound, but its range is quite limited, and the more elaborate constructions of ivory and bronze and silver are of more use in ensembles such as this. There are stringed instruments of many varieties and shapes, all of exceedingly lovely workmanship. Ancient gold, eerie spotted tortoiseshell, ivory and ebony decorations, graceful lines and delicate curves. The kithára, which my sweet David played though he knew not its name, is of an ornately carved wood, and its melodies and rhythms pull the body into motion. I have brought a guitarist I knew from España to play upon it, for though the instrument was strange to him, I was correct in my surmise that his instincts for the sounds would suit well. The player of the aulos is borrowed from a small chamber group in an Irish university, and he brings the wild melancholy of that country's music into the old instrument. The others are from Greece, and the traditions which did not entirely die out in that country bring a sense of authenticity to their interpretations of the songs which have been unheard for centuries.
The epigonion is a particular point of pride with me, for I had one entirely reconstructed, and the man was able to bring just the right quality to its sound – though it appears as a triangular harp, with full forty strings, its sound is metallic and sharp, with a visceral roughness to the intricate interplay of its strings. The barbiton, I could not help but have present, for all remaining reference to it in the old literature describes it as an instrument impossible for use in education, being good only for entertainment, producing only tones brimming with eroticism.
I have trained the musicians in the old Grecian modes of harmony, and made my recommendations (the Phrygian mode is to be preferred, of course, for it is the most liberated and sensual of them). But they need no instruction now, having become captivated by these ancient sounds, lost in another time, playing instruments and melodies not heard by any yet alive... or, so they believe, and that belief is near enough, for I doubt many besides myself remember the tunes.
Dionysus stumbles across the floor, his body wrapped in laden grapevines, and there is laughter at the capering satyrs which surround him. His maenads enchant the company, curling themselves around whoever they find standing nearest, offering them rich wine from golden goblets, and richer wine still from their flushed lips. They are dressed in haphazard fashion, the flowing gowns only half-covering their tanned bodies, falling off of shoulders and away from breasts entirely without care. The girls are drunk, their eyes hazy with desire, their voices low with delicious enticements.
The music shifts into a brighter key, playing a verse of a lilting tune. One of the young Greek men begins to sing over his barbiton, and the tone of his voice is rich and harsh, and Dionysus laughs and tries to sing along, but he cannot, for the words and tune are so strange and unheard. Apollo commands him to silence, but Dionysus only laughs and continues along, weaving unsteadily through the crowd.
Ὅσον ζῇς, φαίνου,
μηδὲν ὅλως σὺ λυποῦ·
πρὸς ὀλίγον ἐστὶ τὸ ζῆν,
τὸ τέλος ὁ xρόνος ἀπαιτεῖ.”
The maenads swirl in delirious confusion, pulling even the shyest dryads into their dance, whirling around the room in a mist of airy fabric and graceful limbs, as the dances of leaves overhead in the summer sunlight. Wine is spilled on the floor, but the rich burgundy and warm gold only enhance the many colors of the mosaics below, and those who slip on the fallen grapes only laugh as they fall to the ground, pulling fellow dancers along with them, and they forget the dance entirely in a wilder dance of eager embraces and heated kisses.
A bright voice suddenly joins the gruff Greek – it is my David! Sweet boy, what pleasure you bring! I press my way through the unsteady crowd, straining to see his lovely form. There! He stands beside the musicians, and he is laughing as he tries to sing along with the Greek. The Greek – who is only a little older than David – laughs as well, and pronounces his words more clearly, but David still stumbles, falling instead into meaningless syllables, letting his voice fly in wordless countermelodies. He sings with the sheer rapture of a bird in flight, his voice swooping and alighting on each note with perfect clarity, his heart's blood permeating every note, filling it with pure joy, joy distilled and released in shining drops of sound.
His voice subsides a little, and he exchanges words I cannot hear with the Greek. The man nods, smiling encouragingly at David, and sings through the first verse again. David listens raptly, singing a light harmony that he produces without thought. Then, the Greek subsides, and David sings:
“While you live, shine
Don't suffer anything at all;
Life exists only a short while
And time demands its toll”
I am beaming like an over-zealous parent, but I do not care. My dearest boy! You are a triumph even in your play. The translation is hardly perfect, but the spirit of the thing is there, and that is all that matters. My dear boy. I am near enough now that his eyes have found mine, and his smile is as the sun over those sapphire Mediterranean waters. His eyes are so warm, his gaze so loving and tender, that I do not need him to tell me that he sings to me. His rich lips part, his eyes shining, and he repeats his brief song, the strings dancing beneath and around his voice, as the sweet melody flies through the air, the notes turned to gold in the purity of his voice.
“While you live, shine...”
He remains with the musicians awhile longer, but the song soon moves into one too fast for words, and, laughing, he bows his gratitude to the group, and moves away through the crowd, but he has little chance to find a path for I make my way to him, and catch him in a tight embrace.
The guests stand as a thousand smaller pillars, as statues cast in varied shades of exotic stone, their forms gracefully draped in flowing fabrics, trimmed with elaborate patterns, decorated with bracelets and necklaces and headpieces of gold and bronze, with stones in the hues of the warm Mediterranean landscape. Among them flit graceful young fauns, their small frames dancing lightly between those statues who will not join in their carefree dances. On occasion, they draw the attention of the ethereal dryads and hamadryads, naiads and nereids, and they circle together in half-wild dances that have no names. In a far corner, sirens croon their endless seductions, and if one draws to near, one will be pulled into the enchantment of their embraces, and find it impossible to leave. The muses move lightly among the musicians, making strange gestures to indicate a preferable melody, while Apollo holds court on a sun-crowned throne, his lyre near to hand, golden in his confidence and perfections.
And the music, ah, the music! This is the entire reason for the evening, to my mind. As David amused himself with my odd collection of instruments not long ago, he seemed fascinated by the gracefully shaped Grecian stringed instruments. Several of them had fallen into accidental disrepair, for I had not thought of them in some time. But one, at least, retained its delicate strings intact, and the boy bent over it carefully, his fingers brushing so softly... oh, so softly, so sweetly, over the strings, and the sound they produced and the motion of his hand sent shivers along my spine. Oh, my David, such a lovely picture you made... dark hair tumbling over your ivory brow, as you bent low over the instrument of old gold, your delicate fingers brushing the strings, drawing from them such light pure tones... and you sang softly to yourself, inventing a tune to match the strange melodies coaxed from the strings tuned in an exotic scale... You were as Orpheus, capable of charming any within hearing, and binding them to you, unable to draw themselves away from such haunting sound.
While still at his desert palace, Azal sent word to me that an old music had been found, at some decayed Grecian site. I was quite eager to hear it, and fortunately it was not long before he returned to us – and brought with him a copy of the old letters on ancient marble. I could not read them, but he had little trouble, and between his eyes and my ears, we were able to find the melody written down so long ago. It is an eerie one, for the Greeks employed more pitches in their scales than Europe has done for centuries, and so even a simple scale has a melancholy exoticism to it. A hymn to Apollo – and it was the first thing to be played this evening, once the guests had all arrived and made their greetings among each other.
“The shrill rustling lotus murmurs its swelling song, and the golden kithára,
the sweet-sounding kithára, answers the voice of men...”
I had repairs made to several of my instruments, and replicas of others made, following the designs of ancient paintings and my ancient memories. And so, tonight, at Apollo's feet, there is a small group of musicians, who produce sounds that none have heard in centuries... The haunting aulos, its parallel pipes held to the musician's lips, producing simultaneously a low undulating melody and a reedy harmony. I much prefer the simpler wooden one, with its warmer sound, but its range is quite limited, and the more elaborate constructions of ivory and bronze and silver are of more use in ensembles such as this. There are stringed instruments of many varieties and shapes, all of exceedingly lovely workmanship. Ancient gold, eerie spotted tortoiseshell, ivory and ebony decorations, graceful lines and delicate curves. The kithára, which my sweet David played though he knew not its name, is of an ornately carved wood, and its melodies and rhythms pull the body into motion. I have brought a guitarist I knew from España to play upon it, for though the instrument was strange to him, I was correct in my surmise that his instincts for the sounds would suit well. The player of the aulos is borrowed from a small chamber group in an Irish university, and he brings the wild melancholy of that country's music into the old instrument. The others are from Greece, and the traditions which did not entirely die out in that country bring a sense of authenticity to their interpretations of the songs which have been unheard for centuries.
The epigonion is a particular point of pride with me, for I had one entirely reconstructed, and the man was able to bring just the right quality to its sound – though it appears as a triangular harp, with full forty strings, its sound is metallic and sharp, with a visceral roughness to the intricate interplay of its strings. The barbiton, I could not help but have present, for all remaining reference to it in the old literature describes it as an instrument impossible for use in education, being good only for entertainment, producing only tones brimming with eroticism.
I have trained the musicians in the old Grecian modes of harmony, and made my recommendations (the Phrygian mode is to be preferred, of course, for it is the most liberated and sensual of them). But they need no instruction now, having become captivated by these ancient sounds, lost in another time, playing instruments and melodies not heard by any yet alive... or, so they believe, and that belief is near enough, for I doubt many besides myself remember the tunes.
Dionysus stumbles across the floor, his body wrapped in laden grapevines, and there is laughter at the capering satyrs which surround him. His maenads enchant the company, curling themselves around whoever they find standing nearest, offering them rich wine from golden goblets, and richer wine still from their flushed lips. They are dressed in haphazard fashion, the flowing gowns only half-covering their tanned bodies, falling off of shoulders and away from breasts entirely without care. The girls are drunk, their eyes hazy with desire, their voices low with delicious enticements.
The music shifts into a brighter key, playing a verse of a lilting tune. One of the young Greek men begins to sing over his barbiton, and the tone of his voice is rich and harsh, and Dionysus laughs and tries to sing along, but he cannot, for the words and tune are so strange and unheard. Apollo commands him to silence, but Dionysus only laughs and continues along, weaving unsteadily through the crowd.
Ὅσον ζῇς, φαίνου,
μηδὲν ὅλως σὺ λυποῦ·
πρὸς ὀλίγον ἐστὶ τὸ ζῆν,
τὸ τέλος ὁ xρόνος ἀπαιτεῖ.”
The maenads swirl in delirious confusion, pulling even the shyest dryads into their dance, whirling around the room in a mist of airy fabric and graceful limbs, as the dances of leaves overhead in the summer sunlight. Wine is spilled on the floor, but the rich burgundy and warm gold only enhance the many colors of the mosaics below, and those who slip on the fallen grapes only laugh as they fall to the ground, pulling fellow dancers along with them, and they forget the dance entirely in a wilder dance of eager embraces and heated kisses.
A bright voice suddenly joins the gruff Greek – it is my David! Sweet boy, what pleasure you bring! I press my way through the unsteady crowd, straining to see his lovely form. There! He stands beside the musicians, and he is laughing as he tries to sing along with the Greek. The Greek – who is only a little older than David – laughs as well, and pronounces his words more clearly, but David still stumbles, falling instead into meaningless syllables, letting his voice fly in wordless countermelodies. He sings with the sheer rapture of a bird in flight, his voice swooping and alighting on each note with perfect clarity, his heart's blood permeating every note, filling it with pure joy, joy distilled and released in shining drops of sound.
His voice subsides a little, and he exchanges words I cannot hear with the Greek. The man nods, smiling encouragingly at David, and sings through the first verse again. David listens raptly, singing a light harmony that he produces without thought. Then, the Greek subsides, and David sings:
“While you live, shine
Don't suffer anything at all;
Life exists only a short while
And time demands its toll”
I am beaming like an over-zealous parent, but I do not care. My dearest boy! You are a triumph even in your play. The translation is hardly perfect, but the spirit of the thing is there, and that is all that matters. My dear boy. I am near enough now that his eyes have found mine, and his smile is as the sun over those sapphire Mediterranean waters. His eyes are so warm, his gaze so loving and tender, that I do not need him to tell me that he sings to me. His rich lips part, his eyes shining, and he repeats his brief song, the strings dancing beneath and around his voice, as the sweet melody flies through the air, the notes turned to gold in the purity of his voice.
“While you live, shine...”
He remains with the musicians awhile longer, but the song soon moves into one too fast for words, and, laughing, he bows his gratitude to the group, and moves away through the crowd, but he has little chance to find a path for I make my way to him, and catch him in a tight embrace.
Notes - Ancient Greek Music
Aaand a few hours later, I have decided that apparently my Phistos are going to have a Greek party. Very original, isn't it? But I now have a full page of tiny scrawl about ancient Greek instruments, and vague notes on the different tonalities.
Highlights of the day's internet digging:
Reconstructed hydraulis, video.
A site I have read in its entirety... and though I was here for the Greek, the Hurrian melody has really.. well, eaten my soul. Music in cuneiform!!! There is a midi file there, and then there is this guy, who has a lyre and plays not only that song, but the Delphic Hymns to Apollo (138bc! most of it intact!), and loads of other interesting things.
The Song of Seikilos is the oldest intact piece of music, and the lyrics translate like this:
While you live, shine
Don't suffer anything at all;
Life exists only a short while
And time demands its toll."
There are also these folks, who are working to make digital reproductions of instruments that no longer exist. This is fascinating to me. So far, they've managed the Greek epigonion, but they're working on a handful more - and I reallyreally wish some snippets were available of the others, but... I have some descriptions (thanks wiki), at least.
...all of this, will be more than enough for the probably single paragraph at most of describing the scene I should have written hours ago. whoops. At least I've learned that the aulos, in all its various forms, is not a pretty little flute-like thing. It's a reed instrument, and has that harsh edge to the tone that oboes and bagpipes and things do. Luckily there are loads of stringed things, and the syrinx (pan-pipes).
Highlights of the day's internet digging:
Reconstructed hydraulis, video.
A site I have read in its entirety... and though I was here for the Greek, the Hurrian melody has really.. well, eaten my soul. Music in cuneiform!!! There is a midi file there, and then there is this guy, who has a lyre and plays not only that song, but the Delphic Hymns to Apollo (138bc! most of it intact!), and loads of other interesting things.
The Song of Seikilos is the oldest intact piece of music, and the lyrics translate like this:
While you live, shine
Don't suffer anything at all;
Life exists only a short while
And time demands its toll."
There are also these folks, who are working to make digital reproductions of instruments that no longer exist. This is fascinating to me. So far, they've managed the Greek epigonion, but they're working on a handful more - and I reallyreally wish some snippets were available of the others, but... I have some descriptions (thanks wiki), at least.
...all of this, will be more than enough for the probably single paragraph at most of describing the scene I should have written hours ago. whoops. At least I've learned that the aulos, in all its various forms, is not a pretty little flute-like thing. It's a reed instrument, and has that harsh edge to the tone that oboes and bagpipes and things do. Luckily there are loads of stringed things, and the syrinx (pan-pipes).
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Notes
I only sort-of cheated on that beast of a chapter. In the re-workings of the behemoth from the first draft, I had, as mentioned, decided to move some chunks around. What I didn't realize, until I went to work on this one today, was that this chunk? Was originally written from Carey's viewpoint, and Meres was his companion. Which means that everything Carey said, Meres was now saying, and everything Meres did in reaction, Azal was now doing.
So, I basically re-wrote the entire thing. I kept the old stuff at the bottom of the screen for reference, and so some of the content was kept (i.e., they said much of the same things as before), but the wording, the setting, all that was changed. What Meres' reactions would have been are not what Azal's would be. And then I added in lots, took some things out, moved a sentence I liked out of a paragraph I cut...
I have no idea how this was all accomplished today. Let's not discuss today, it was not a happy evening, except for the amazingness of my coworkers.
I am likely going to cheat my way out of naming the actual books they're looking at, at least for November. Enoch, I need to re-read before adding much detail here. And I suppose I should look into the Babylonian stuff some more as well, I haven't read anything directly, apart from Gilgamesh (which I also should re-read).
Two things about this chunk that are making me superhappy right now:
1) Giving myself a freaking sweet loophole, in the line about how a single mispronounced syllable in an incantation can screw the whole thing up. I'd been worrying more and more about how close the names I've used for the characters are to the grigori listed in Enoch. Meres - Meresin? really? he forgot that? But I think the point I made is a really good one, and enough to stand on.
2) Azalya. Only Meres would call Azal this. I am so in love with this pet name. (Once at home with internet, I double-checked the meaning of azaleas - an unintended connection. Romance and temperance. Which at first made me laugh, that seemed so far off... but then I realized, maybe not? Because Azal shows extreme temperance in his romances - he keeps things strictly physical, and does not let his emotions become attached, after having been stricken so hard after his first human love.)
I. Love. This. Story.
So, I basically re-wrote the entire thing. I kept the old stuff at the bottom of the screen for reference, and so some of the content was kept (i.e., they said much of the same things as before), but the wording, the setting, all that was changed. What Meres' reactions would have been are not what Azal's would be. And then I added in lots, took some things out, moved a sentence I liked out of a paragraph I cut...
I have no idea how this was all accomplished today. Let's not discuss today, it was not a happy evening, except for the amazingness of my coworkers.
I am likely going to cheat my way out of naming the actual books they're looking at, at least for November. Enoch, I need to re-read before adding much detail here. And I suppose I should look into the Babylonian stuff some more as well, I haven't read anything directly, apart from Gilgamesh (which I also should re-read).
Two things about this chunk that are making me superhappy right now:
1) Giving myself a freaking sweet loophole, in the line about how a single mispronounced syllable in an incantation can screw the whole thing up. I'd been worrying more and more about how close the names I've used for the characters are to the grigori listed in Enoch. Meres - Meresin? really? he forgot that? But I think the point I made is a really good one, and enough to stand on.
2) Azalya. Only Meres would call Azal this. I am so in love with this pet name. (Once at home with internet, I double-checked the meaning of azaleas - an unintended connection. Romance and temperance. Which at first made me laugh, that seemed so far off... but then I realized, maybe not? Because Azal shows extreme temperance in his romances - he keeps things strictly physical, and does not let his emotions become attached, after having been stricken so hard after his first human love.)
I. Love. This. Story.
17 - Meres
As the carriage pulls up to the front door of Azal's local residence, I take a few moments to gather an ungainly pile of books into my arms. I feel ridiculous carrying them myself, in such an ungraceful display, but I do not trust them to another. I convinced Mark to loan me a few of them, and others... well, he need not know they are in my possession. He will never notice, and if he does, will only think he has misplaced them in his abstractions of mind.
I do manage to ring the bell without dropping anything, and the door is instantly opened by a strikingly beautiful young woman, dressed in the diaphanous silks of the desert. Though a chill breeze starts up behind me, she does not shiver - I am rather impressed by this. She motions me inside, and instantly moves to relieve me of my burden.
"No - I will carry them myself, though I thank you for the offer," I demure, forcing a polite smile. It is all that I can do to maintain a calm facade. I have not slept in days. I have not seen Veri in weeks, and no-one has given me any news of him. He refuses all entrance, and will not reply to any letters I have sent him. The world seems to have grown strange and distant in the last few weeks... something is wrong, or changed, and I do not know what. I do not know... if we only knew all that we once had, perhaps we should be able to find the change, and prevent this inevitable decay that Time has wrought on us...
“Azal! My dearest friend, you must help me with these--- do be careful, they are old, and they are not mine.”
Bewildered by my sudden appearance, and with such an odd burden in my arms, Azal laughs lightly, and takes half of the books from me, his grasp tender on the ancient leather and yellowed vellum. “Meres... whatever is all of this? You had no need to bring it here, I could have---”
“No, no... we would not have had the privacy needed to properly examine them where they were. And I did not wish to wait, while sending you a message, then letting you come in reply. Now. A well-lit room, very private? We should not wish to be heard, nor interrupted.”
“Certainly – do come this way. What brings you here with such urgency?”
I laugh dryly. “Concern over the books being missed, largely. We might well have a week before they are, yet I suspect we shall need some time to go through them. I have started, but none have the eye for language that you do, Azal, and I am afraid I quickly reached the limits of my own ability. Also, I am certain you will find nuance that I do not, and even the slightest quirk of word usage may be of importance.”
“I am glad to be of help, of course. Here, this room should suit. Let me open the drapes, and I will light the rest of the lamps.” He sets the books down on a long mahogany table, carved with a lovely design of vines and abstracted flowers around the edges. I follow suit, as he moves around the room, bringing as much light into it as possible. I sort through the books, arranging them in piles according to their contents and language.
“I suppose I should explain my pursuit to you...” I am almost reluctant, now that it comes to it. Such an exhausting topic to discuss. But if I am to make the best use of his assistance, he will have to know what it is that I am searching for.
"...Azal?" I ask hesitantly, and a strange uncertainty steals the strength from my voice. "Azal, this is a terrible thing to ask, but... do you... do you remember, your Name?"
He stops dead, as he reaches for a curtain. I can almost hear the sudden silence of his heartbeat stopping at the shock of the thought. Our Names... it has been so very, very long, and---
Azal gasps, and he crumples to the ground, his face ashen. I rush toward him, as his fingers claw at the carpeted floor, the fingertips turning scarlet with the force of friction. “My Name, my Name! So long... mi nombre, tên tôi là, je m'appelle... oh, Meres, we laughed as we threw them away! Do you not remember... I remember, I cannot remember...”
I wrap my arms tightly around him, my body shaking with his, and he clutches desperately at my jacket, his fingers digging gouges into his palms as he babbles on the brink of hysteria. “I laughed as I threw it away, we fell and let the names fall away as we tumbled down through the air, throwing them as boys throw stones into streams we threw them into the air and watched them fall, we declared ourselves new creations and thus declared new names, new selves, entirely remade in our own image, no long the forced image of---”
“Hush, Azalya, hush...”
“We would not answer to the old names, when we were Called we did not listen, for we had christened ourselves anew, we swept away the last of the fallen feathers and we laughed, we had made ourselves and our names were our own, and held no power over us for we had made them...”
Our hearts beat too wildly for our trembling frames, our breathing turned to helpless gasps for breath, the words will not stop tumbling from Azal, the blood will not stop spilling from his palms.
“They held no power for we gave it all up, we thought we were better with our own strengths, Meres m'cara, we were new and we were dying though we could not die, basta, basta! Meres, I...”
He clings to me desperately and sobs, the words subsiding into mumblings in a language I have long forgotten. His face is pressed tightly to my chest, and I can feel his lips still moving, his breath scorching through my silk shirt. “Azalya, my dearest, hush... I am so sorry to cause you such pain, I know how vulnerable you are to such memories... But, that is why I have asked your help.” I stoke his hair slowly, combing it back from his wet cheeks. He had been so strong, until the night of the mermaid party... and though I have seen him in worse state, this is still weaker than I have seen him in centuries. What has happened to us... what have we forgotten that we are losing?
“Azal... you know the priest, Mark Douglas? This man... this man is looking for us, for our story. Oh, but not us, he does not realize the connections before his very eyes, for he does not know of our true nature, but... He is researching us, us, by way of our children...”
His body grows suddenly still, frozen by his raptness of attention on my words.
“Azal, you know as I do, that we were stricken out of their canon long ago, the churches finding it too difficult to reconcile us with the narrative they desired. We stood beside the scribes as they copied and miscopied, we coaxed and cajoled and persuaded those who propounded the validity of one ancient, unprovable letter over another ancient, unprovable letter. We laughed, you must remember, how we laughed at the incongruities they produced! But Azal, my darling, I am sure you remember too, that we could not... we could not quite bear to have all left out, I..." My voice fails me, and I do not dare look at his face, for fear of the tears he will see upon mine, terrified of bringing him to the point of utter desperation yet again. I feel ashamed to bring such weakness to us both, to share such a wretched moment with him! I should not be here we should not be like this I---
He pulls roughly away, biting his bottom lip violently, his words struggling to force through the fog of emotion which surrounds us both. "Meres! Meres stop, I remember of course I remember how could I not! Of course I remember... but why mention this now? What help is it, to recall such things? I do not have... I do not have the strength, Meres, I am so weakened..."
“Az--- Azal, we let them hold onto a tiny glimpse into our world and our sin and our punishment. Only a few short lines.” ...my voice does not sound so strong as I wished it to, I fight harder, but my emotions will not be constrained. “But, Azalya, more remained than we had thought... Oh, it was cast aside and relegated to myth and legend, which was fine for so long, but, oh Azal, if this man should come to believe it! There--- on the table, that book bound in black leather, that is the Book of Enoch, which Mark has been studying. And following the threads from it--- in there, and there, and--- the old letters, the old writings, which his forefathers in the church cast aside and so cast out of their knowledge. But this man, he has read of us, he has searched for us. He has read of... of our children, Azalya, you know we could not bear to entirely strike them from history's record. And from them he has learned of us, and hunted for us, and...” And I choke on the words that tumble from my lips, I gasp and take Azal's chin in my hands, and force my blurred gaze into his. And his eyes are as haunted and terrified as my soul, yet I see also the light of... oh, but we have not had hope in so long, that all we can reach is desperation, and he is bound entirely in it. “Azalya, there is a list... a list of our Names.”
His eyes widen, and I can feel his heart pounding against my chest, and we are both shaking from the impact of its desperation.
“Azalya... I have not yet found it, but I know it is here. Mark makes mention of it in some of his notes, there is a list. Do, help me find it... help me find the things in these books that tell of the things we have forgotten. I know the Names cannot be far, among ourselves, our names did not all change so very much. But you know, far better than I, how much the difference of a single syllable can make. One mispronunciation can obliterate all the masses of power gathered in an hour's incantation. And there is such power in those names, such power that we were terrified of! You know as well as I the ramifications if – not so much this man, but others, others with less ties to the cold commandments of the Church – if they learn of our names, what could thus be done. We – even we – could be destroyed, become slaves as the djinn of old, or worse... We have dealt with such magics before, and man has forgotten so much since those times, but Azal, oh, my dear Azal! To know again something which we have lost, oh do you not see! If we can find our Names, perhaps... perhaps---!”
He is clenching the fabric of my shirt in his fists, and his nails pierce the fabric and pierce again his flesh, and I feel the heat as blood seeps out from this fragile flesh. “Meres... could... no, but there, there cannot be a return of what we have lost... Meres, you know how many, many times I have tried, how many...” He chokes back a sob, and curls his shoulders inward – his back must be burning, for mine does as well, those scars which never heal nor cease their torment.
“Hush, dear heart, hush, I know... I have been at your side every time, you know I cannot have forgotten. I do not know what we might gain, or fail to gain, but I will not rest until I have bled this avenue dry of resources. If there is even any hint of some... some hope. A hope, for us, think of it! Ah, darling, I hardly dare think of... I have told no-one else yet, I am so afraid it shall be an empty hope, and come to nothing, as so many pursuits have in these long years...”
“You have not told Veri?”
“No! Oh, I do not think he could bear it, to have something so tantalizingly near, and then torn mockingly away. He has grown so weak, you know... no, you have seen, but not what I have seen. He is so weak, that I am truly afraid of what I shall see when he allows me to visit again. I am so afraid for him, I... oh, do not tell him, do not tell anyone! I fear not their cold mockery, for such vain pursuits, I fear only that... oh, I do not wish to think what might happen, were such final hope then destroyed. So little comes to light in these late days, so much has been forgotten.”
“I will tell no-one... oh, I could almost wish to forget myself! But no, no, it... Meres, you know how desperately I have searched. I had begun to think there was nowhere left to look. I turned instead inside my own thoughts, my fragmenting memory, and thus...” He laughs with no mirth, and need say nothing of the night of the mermaid party. “And you know where that led. And now you come to me with this, and...”
I smile gently at him, cupping his cheek in my hand, stroking it softly. “Who better to bring it to? You are the only one I know who can help me in this search.”
“You believe these to be all the relevant texts, then?”
I nod, taking a slow, shaky breath. “I believe so. All that Mark had to hand, at least. He did hint that some of the books, the seminary would not allow out of their hands. But we shall deal with that when we come to it, I can discover which books those might be later – I suspect several of them might be in your library in any event, or perhaps Luce's.”
Azal nods, his breathing growing steadier, as reason slowly lays emotion to rest. “I am sure Mark would have had to find explanations of many things regarding old languages, old religions, which we would not need to.” He smiles quietly up at me, caressing my cheek lightly. A gentle kiss is more than enough to express his gratitude to me.
We rise, and pull chairs up to the table, where I describe to him what piles I have sorted the books into. “These are the volumes I should like you to look at first – they are all in languages I could not follow enough to discern what the contents might be. I expect Mark consulted a master index at the seminary, where the titles were translated; I do not know what his plans were for gleaning information from them.”
He lifts the first one, bound in a dingy moss green, the gilt letters of its title worn away with age and neglect. Turning the thin vellum pages carefully, his brows furrow slightly, and he nods as he skims a few lines here and there. “It's a very, very old dialect... it's Aramaic, but a local variant that I did not think any writings remained of. But this one is of little concern, I suspect – it relates a flood myth that is similar to the Bible's, but there is no mention of us.” He lifts the next book, and after a brief pause, sets it aside as well. “The Qu'rān.” He grins at me. “You truly have neglected your languages – you did not recall enough Arabic to glean even the title?”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Evidently not. I suppose this was among his things for its references to the djinn, semi-angelic fallen beings that they are. There are connections enough to our story in that one...”
“I would imagine so.” He flips gently, almost lovingly, through the pages. “This is written in a particularly lovely hand... I find it so sad that most here in the West view it as a barbarous thing, for it is a beautiful language to look at.”
He falls into silence, finding some comfort in the language of that distant place he has spent so many recent years in. There is certainly an appeal to the heat of the desert, and those lovely wide open skies... perhaps I shall go with him when next he returns. And Veri... Veri would find the warmth a balm, I think.
I lift a book from the pile – then set it aside, moving it to the pile before Azal. My Hebrew is terribly rusty. I search out a book in Latin, which I can manage quite as well as English, though I do not speak it often these days.
Words fall away in the quiet shushing of pages turned, the moth-wing scent of old vellum rising slowly into the air, the softness of old dust filling our lungs. Azal rises after a time, and returns with a small stack of paper, two pens and inkwells, setting them between us. I reach gratefully for one, and scratch out a short series of Latin phrases, making note of some vague memory they tug at. Azal soon has several pages filled in a script I am unable to read, and I hear his pen vacillate between desperate scratchings of passionate insight, and slow ponderous loops of deliberation... and I suppose my pen does the same. Time slips from view, and I suppose the servants must have brought in more light as the day wanes, for the window is now dark. The piles have shifted, but still we read, and make note, and exchange short queries of language and reference, in voices dry and dusty as the ancient pages we are lost within.
I do manage to ring the bell without dropping anything, and the door is instantly opened by a strikingly beautiful young woman, dressed in the diaphanous silks of the desert. Though a chill breeze starts up behind me, she does not shiver - I am rather impressed by this. She motions me inside, and instantly moves to relieve me of my burden.
"No - I will carry them myself, though I thank you for the offer," I demure, forcing a polite smile. It is all that I can do to maintain a calm facade. I have not slept in days. I have not seen Veri in weeks, and no-one has given me any news of him. He refuses all entrance, and will not reply to any letters I have sent him. The world seems to have grown strange and distant in the last few weeks... something is wrong, or changed, and I do not know what. I do not know... if we only knew all that we once had, perhaps we should be able to find the change, and prevent this inevitable decay that Time has wrought on us...
“Azal! My dearest friend, you must help me with these--- do be careful, they are old, and they are not mine.”
Bewildered by my sudden appearance, and with such an odd burden in my arms, Azal laughs lightly, and takes half of the books from me, his grasp tender on the ancient leather and yellowed vellum. “Meres... whatever is all of this? You had no need to bring it here, I could have---”
“No, no... we would not have had the privacy needed to properly examine them where they were. And I did not wish to wait, while sending you a message, then letting you come in reply. Now. A well-lit room, very private? We should not wish to be heard, nor interrupted.”
“Certainly – do come this way. What brings you here with such urgency?”
I laugh dryly. “Concern over the books being missed, largely. We might well have a week before they are, yet I suspect we shall need some time to go through them. I have started, but none have the eye for language that you do, Azal, and I am afraid I quickly reached the limits of my own ability. Also, I am certain you will find nuance that I do not, and even the slightest quirk of word usage may be of importance.”
“I am glad to be of help, of course. Here, this room should suit. Let me open the drapes, and I will light the rest of the lamps.” He sets the books down on a long mahogany table, carved with a lovely design of vines and abstracted flowers around the edges. I follow suit, as he moves around the room, bringing as much light into it as possible. I sort through the books, arranging them in piles according to their contents and language.
“I suppose I should explain my pursuit to you...” I am almost reluctant, now that it comes to it. Such an exhausting topic to discuss. But if I am to make the best use of his assistance, he will have to know what it is that I am searching for.
"...Azal?" I ask hesitantly, and a strange uncertainty steals the strength from my voice. "Azal, this is a terrible thing to ask, but... do you... do you remember, your Name?"
He stops dead, as he reaches for a curtain. I can almost hear the sudden silence of his heartbeat stopping at the shock of the thought. Our Names... it has been so very, very long, and---
Azal gasps, and he crumples to the ground, his face ashen. I rush toward him, as his fingers claw at the carpeted floor, the fingertips turning scarlet with the force of friction. “My Name, my Name! So long... mi nombre, tên tôi là, je m'appelle... oh, Meres, we laughed as we threw them away! Do you not remember... I remember, I cannot remember...”
I wrap my arms tightly around him, my body shaking with his, and he clutches desperately at my jacket, his fingers digging gouges into his palms as he babbles on the brink of hysteria. “I laughed as I threw it away, we fell and let the names fall away as we tumbled down through the air, throwing them as boys throw stones into streams we threw them into the air and watched them fall, we declared ourselves new creations and thus declared new names, new selves, entirely remade in our own image, no long the forced image of---”
“Hush, Azalya, hush...”
“We would not answer to the old names, when we were Called we did not listen, for we had christened ourselves anew, we swept away the last of the fallen feathers and we laughed, we had made ourselves and our names were our own, and held no power over us for we had made them...”
Our hearts beat too wildly for our trembling frames, our breathing turned to helpless gasps for breath, the words will not stop tumbling from Azal, the blood will not stop spilling from his palms.
“They held no power for we gave it all up, we thought we were better with our own strengths, Meres m'cara, we were new and we were dying though we could not die, basta, basta! Meres, I...”
He clings to me desperately and sobs, the words subsiding into mumblings in a language I have long forgotten. His face is pressed tightly to my chest, and I can feel his lips still moving, his breath scorching through my silk shirt. “Azalya, my dearest, hush... I am so sorry to cause you such pain, I know how vulnerable you are to such memories... But, that is why I have asked your help.” I stoke his hair slowly, combing it back from his wet cheeks. He had been so strong, until the night of the mermaid party... and though I have seen him in worse state, this is still weaker than I have seen him in centuries. What has happened to us... what have we forgotten that we are losing?
“Azal... you know the priest, Mark Douglas? This man... this man is looking for us, for our story. Oh, but not us, he does not realize the connections before his very eyes, for he does not know of our true nature, but... He is researching us, us, by way of our children...”
His body grows suddenly still, frozen by his raptness of attention on my words.
“Azal, you know as I do, that we were stricken out of their canon long ago, the churches finding it too difficult to reconcile us with the narrative they desired. We stood beside the scribes as they copied and miscopied, we coaxed and cajoled and persuaded those who propounded the validity of one ancient, unprovable letter over another ancient, unprovable letter. We laughed, you must remember, how we laughed at the incongruities they produced! But Azal, my darling, I am sure you remember too, that we could not... we could not quite bear to have all left out, I..." My voice fails me, and I do not dare look at his face, for fear of the tears he will see upon mine, terrified of bringing him to the point of utter desperation yet again. I feel ashamed to bring such weakness to us both, to share such a wretched moment with him! I should not be here we should not be like this I---
He pulls roughly away, biting his bottom lip violently, his words struggling to force through the fog of emotion which surrounds us both. "Meres! Meres stop, I remember of course I remember how could I not! Of course I remember... but why mention this now? What help is it, to recall such things? I do not have... I do not have the strength, Meres, I am so weakened..."
“Az--- Azal, we let them hold onto a tiny glimpse into our world and our sin and our punishment. Only a few short lines.” ...my voice does not sound so strong as I wished it to, I fight harder, but my emotions will not be constrained. “But, Azalya, more remained than we had thought... Oh, it was cast aside and relegated to myth and legend, which was fine for so long, but, oh Azal, if this man should come to believe it! There--- on the table, that book bound in black leather, that is the Book of Enoch, which Mark has been studying. And following the threads from it--- in there, and there, and--- the old letters, the old writings, which his forefathers in the church cast aside and so cast out of their knowledge. But this man, he has read of us, he has searched for us. He has read of... of our children, Azalya, you know we could not bear to entirely strike them from history's record. And from them he has learned of us, and hunted for us, and...” And I choke on the words that tumble from my lips, I gasp and take Azal's chin in my hands, and force my blurred gaze into his. And his eyes are as haunted and terrified as my soul, yet I see also the light of... oh, but we have not had hope in so long, that all we can reach is desperation, and he is bound entirely in it. “Azalya, there is a list... a list of our Names.”
His eyes widen, and I can feel his heart pounding against my chest, and we are both shaking from the impact of its desperation.
“Azalya... I have not yet found it, but I know it is here. Mark makes mention of it in some of his notes, there is a list. Do, help me find it... help me find the things in these books that tell of the things we have forgotten. I know the Names cannot be far, among ourselves, our names did not all change so very much. But you know, far better than I, how much the difference of a single syllable can make. One mispronunciation can obliterate all the masses of power gathered in an hour's incantation. And there is such power in those names, such power that we were terrified of! You know as well as I the ramifications if – not so much this man, but others, others with less ties to the cold commandments of the Church – if they learn of our names, what could thus be done. We – even we – could be destroyed, become slaves as the djinn of old, or worse... We have dealt with such magics before, and man has forgotten so much since those times, but Azal, oh, my dear Azal! To know again something which we have lost, oh do you not see! If we can find our Names, perhaps... perhaps---!”
He is clenching the fabric of my shirt in his fists, and his nails pierce the fabric and pierce again his flesh, and I feel the heat as blood seeps out from this fragile flesh. “Meres... could... no, but there, there cannot be a return of what we have lost... Meres, you know how many, many times I have tried, how many...” He chokes back a sob, and curls his shoulders inward – his back must be burning, for mine does as well, those scars which never heal nor cease their torment.
“Hush, dear heart, hush, I know... I have been at your side every time, you know I cannot have forgotten. I do not know what we might gain, or fail to gain, but I will not rest until I have bled this avenue dry of resources. If there is even any hint of some... some hope. A hope, for us, think of it! Ah, darling, I hardly dare think of... I have told no-one else yet, I am so afraid it shall be an empty hope, and come to nothing, as so many pursuits have in these long years...”
“You have not told Veri?”
“No! Oh, I do not think he could bear it, to have something so tantalizingly near, and then torn mockingly away. He has grown so weak, you know... no, you have seen, but not what I have seen. He is so weak, that I am truly afraid of what I shall see when he allows me to visit again. I am so afraid for him, I... oh, do not tell him, do not tell anyone! I fear not their cold mockery, for such vain pursuits, I fear only that... oh, I do not wish to think what might happen, were such final hope then destroyed. So little comes to light in these late days, so much has been forgotten.”
“I will tell no-one... oh, I could almost wish to forget myself! But no, no, it... Meres, you know how desperately I have searched. I had begun to think there was nowhere left to look. I turned instead inside my own thoughts, my fragmenting memory, and thus...” He laughs with no mirth, and need say nothing of the night of the mermaid party. “And you know where that led. And now you come to me with this, and...”
I smile gently at him, cupping his cheek in my hand, stroking it softly. “Who better to bring it to? You are the only one I know who can help me in this search.”
“You believe these to be all the relevant texts, then?”
I nod, taking a slow, shaky breath. “I believe so. All that Mark had to hand, at least. He did hint that some of the books, the seminary would not allow out of their hands. But we shall deal with that when we come to it, I can discover which books those might be later – I suspect several of them might be in your library in any event, or perhaps Luce's.”
Azal nods, his breathing growing steadier, as reason slowly lays emotion to rest. “I am sure Mark would have had to find explanations of many things regarding old languages, old religions, which we would not need to.” He smiles quietly up at me, caressing my cheek lightly. A gentle kiss is more than enough to express his gratitude to me.
We rise, and pull chairs up to the table, where I describe to him what piles I have sorted the books into. “These are the volumes I should like you to look at first – they are all in languages I could not follow enough to discern what the contents might be. I expect Mark consulted a master index at the seminary, where the titles were translated; I do not know what his plans were for gleaning information from them.”
He lifts the first one, bound in a dingy moss green, the gilt letters of its title worn away with age and neglect. Turning the thin vellum pages carefully, his brows furrow slightly, and he nods as he skims a few lines here and there. “It's a very, very old dialect... it's Aramaic, but a local variant that I did not think any writings remained of. But this one is of little concern, I suspect – it relates a flood myth that is similar to the Bible's, but there is no mention of us.” He lifts the next book, and after a brief pause, sets it aside as well. “The Qu'rān.” He grins at me. “You truly have neglected your languages – you did not recall enough Arabic to glean even the title?”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Evidently not. I suppose this was among his things for its references to the djinn, semi-angelic fallen beings that they are. There are connections enough to our story in that one...”
“I would imagine so.” He flips gently, almost lovingly, through the pages. “This is written in a particularly lovely hand... I find it so sad that most here in the West view it as a barbarous thing, for it is a beautiful language to look at.”
He falls into silence, finding some comfort in the language of that distant place he has spent so many recent years in. There is certainly an appeal to the heat of the desert, and those lovely wide open skies... perhaps I shall go with him when next he returns. And Veri... Veri would find the warmth a balm, I think.
I lift a book from the pile – then set it aside, moving it to the pile before Azal. My Hebrew is terribly rusty. I search out a book in Latin, which I can manage quite as well as English, though I do not speak it often these days.
Words fall away in the quiet shushing of pages turned, the moth-wing scent of old vellum rising slowly into the air, the softness of old dust filling our lungs. Azal rises after a time, and returns with a small stack of paper, two pens and inkwells, setting them between us. I reach gratefully for one, and scratch out a short series of Latin phrases, making note of some vague memory they tug at. Azal soon has several pages filled in a script I am unable to read, and I hear his pen vacillate between desperate scratchings of passionate insight, and slow ponderous loops of deliberation... and I suppose my pen does the same. Time slips from view, and I suppose the servants must have brought in more light as the day wanes, for the window is now dark. The piles have shifted, but still we read, and make note, and exchange short queries of language and reference, in voices dry and dusty as the ancient pages we are lost within.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Notes
I took apart and re-assembled the over-large chapter with the Enoch stuff from the '07 NaNo. Originally, it was all Carey's pov, all at once, and it was just freaking huge. So, part became the just-posted Adir bit (with only a few slight additions and new bits). Another part became the just-posted Luce bit - I added a beginning and ending, and took out a middle chunk, which will be in tomorrow's Meres bit. I decided soon after finishing that year that Azal ought to be involved in all this, and so he will be. Adir/Carey could nooot have cared less, and so, they are removed when convenient. ;) I think it'll be a smidge less overwhelming now than it was before.. at least I hope so!
(And no, I didn't count any previously-written stuff in my wordcount. I even failed to count some things I wrote into the old sections, to make up for the couple of half-sentences I smuggled into the new sections. I'm a good lil NaNo'er.)
(And no, I didn't count any previously-written stuff in my wordcount. I even failed to count some things I wrote into the old sections, to make up for the couple of half-sentences I smuggled into the new sections. I'm a good lil NaNo'er.)
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